


There is Blood

by stchristopher



Series: There is Blood [1]
Category: Berserk
Genre: Guts loves Griffith sorry everyone, M/M, Oneshot, Spoilers? Mentions of the Really Bad Stuff, also vice versa until he became literally The Devil so, implied - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 10:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8202103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stchristopher/pseuds/stchristopher
Summary: There is betrayal. There is sorrow, and there is this painful, painful ache and confusion, the sort that comes when one finds themselves wading through a lake of blood. What has gone wrong?He did not know.





	

Griffith towers over him in violet so dark it’s nearly black and there is blood everywhere.

There is betrayal. There is sorrow, and there is this painful, painful ache and confusion, the sort that comes when one finds themselves wading through a lake of blood. _What has gone wrong?_  
He did not know.

  
It had started off violently, Gutts refusing his leadership. Griffith finding some will in Guts to force it (prove me wrong, then, and i’ll let you go). And three years, four years, Guts was perhaps the most loyal of them all.  
He had allowed the other to grasp his hand. To hold it, pull him up, squeeze it. And he hated being touched. There was not necessarily comfort there but rather.... Support? Something. _Equality?_ No, not that. The way he’d grip Gut’s shoulder after a battle and ask him, that serene voice, a hypnotic voice, “Are you alright?” There was perhaps an edge of panic when Guts was covered in blood (rarely was much of it his). Or sometimes it was just a look, from across the field. Guts would return it. He’d nod. _I’m fine. I’m fine._

  
There had been the battle between him and one hundred men. And Casca had brought help too late; but that had not mattered. He had won (naturally) and he had been greeted first, by sharp eyes and that voice. An exchanged smile. They were both relieved.  
Despite his position among the Band of the Hawk, despite Griffith’s confidence in him, Guts was unsatisfied. The words Griffith had said that night still echoed within his own mind; _an equal, an equal, an equal._  
Was he an equal to Griffith? No, by no means, no. No. Griffith had stopped him in battle (defeated him), had overcome him… Perhaps not easily (the second time) but he had still done it. And what did Guts have, but a sword and a will to live? He was not led by some sole purpose that truly led him throughout every hardship. He was simply… Alive.  
What did he have? _What did he have?_

  
Guts made the decision to leave long before he left. And that was it. There was no premeditated plan. No map of where he would go.

He would simply _go._  
As usual, many battles were won, each one more devastating than the last and Griffith rose in the ranks until he reached noblemen and women. And when Griffith’s role was becoming solid among the king’s men (mercenaries serving a king, only Griffith could make it that way, only he could get them to bend), Guts set out his decision.  
He was met by cold eyes and a long, thin blade.  
He recalled Griffith saying, four or so years ago, I will always get what I want, and here Guts was, undoing it himself. Untangling this complicated knot that Griffith had created so long ago.  
Was it selfish? It wasn’t out of malice. But how could he tell him that? How could he explain that he did not _feel_ equal to Griffith, yet he wanted to be so? And to be so for himself? ' _someone with a dream'...._ That all he saw ahead of him was the edge of his sword and the will to get through one battle and into the next. What could he say for himself, when he found only purpose in drawing blood? He did not want to be made of violence.

He wanted a goal.  
_He wanted a dream._

  
Casca was dedicated to Griffith. Judeau, Pippin, Corkus even; they had their dreams. But they held up Griffith’s as though it were a torch in a dark, hopeless place. And Griffith was the flame.  
The confrontation did not end well, and Guts felt that perhaps, with someone as fierce, as burning as Griffith, it could go no other way. Griffith’s sword snapped, flew somewhere into the cold morning air. He was too shocked to speak. Guts had been shocked too (had nearly cut the other in half, had not expected his sword to _snap_ , had not expected to be moving suddenly so quickly towards him and judging by the wideness in Griffith’s eyes, he likely did not expect any of it, either).  
Leaving was as easy as it always was (he had not _meant_ to kill Gambino, had not _wanted_ to leave his “ _home_ ”) and so each step was as heavy as the last. But at least there was something ahead of him. No wolves came prowling and he was not bleeding. Behind him, Griffith was stunned silent and Casca was watching and for once, she was not chiding him. And the rest were quiet, too. He had not intended to leave so cruelly (was he selfish? Was he? Was he?).  
But perhaps, with someone like him…

He would return (would Griffith welcome him again? He could only hope and hope and hope and-). He had not promised it. Perhaps he should have. Perhaps he should have a lot of things. If he had left in the night, let Griffith learn of it in the morning (what would he have done?), how better would the outcome have been?  
He would not know of the battle that would take place by morning, he would not know of the arrows tearing the Band of the Hawk into many pieces, of the whip and a year _(a y e a r_ ) spent in the king’s dungeons with a Torturer and what horrors, what horrors had Griffith endured, what kind of pain, and hopelessness, and-

  
A year is a long time, Gutts can not help but think in that dungeon that reeked of blood, sweat, and filth. The hawks wings had truly been clipped- Griffith had become so small. And Guts had felt nothing but sorrow and regret.

 

So as the world becomes red and there is screaming somewhere distantly behind him, he cannot tear his eyes away from the figure before him.  
Because, once again, this was in some way his fault, wasn’t it? As it had been with Gambino. As it had been with everything.

 

Griffith towers over him in violet so dark it’s nearly black and there is blood everywhere.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone: The Berserk fandom is dead and also does not care abt Griffith/Gutts
> 
> Me: That sounds fake but Okay
> 
> -  
> There will be a Griffith counterpart to this fic!!!!


End file.
